Happy Healthy Harry
by kazuo-sempai
Summary: Voldemort's little Halloween visit does more damage than anyone could have realized. And it is a very different Harry Potter who goes to Hogwarts. "They were all so vibrant, so lively, so wonderfully full of that beautiful red. But no. None of them would do. He had to find that special someone. Someone with It. And then, Harry had to kill them." HP/LL eventually, Dark Humor


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

**A/N: **Horribly, undeniably, unabashedly inspired by the novel _Darkly Dreaming Dexter. _So yes. This is going to be dark. But also funny (hopefully)!

Chapter One:

The Boy Who... Well, Maybe Lived Isn't The Right Word

Idly, he wondered how this had all started. He was quite sure that he had been this way all along, nothing had triggered it or anything. When he focused hard enough, he could recall some sort of green flash but, well, that wasn't really much of a clue, now was it? But if he really, really thought about it, looked back on the events in a loose sort of order...

He suppressed a laugh. Don't want to wake out guest before everything is ready, do we Harry. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. Although technically speaking, Harry himself was the guest here. Waving off that train of thought, Harry happily continued to unroll the duct tape, giggling slightly.

If he had to say for sure where it had all began...

He felt his face split into a wide grin, and knew that It was probably showing in his eyes.

It had all started with a dog.

* * *

Dudley, his great oaf of a cousin, had whined and begged for days. He used every trick in his book; the fake tears, the "It's not fair"s and even the "If you really loved me"s and eventually had gotten his way. Harry came home from school one day and, to his horror, was greeting by a small black dog growling at him.

Harry had a sort of agreement with animals. They didn't like him, and he didn't like them. Any time he came across one of the neighbor's pets, he would take measures to avoid them and in return, they didn't chase him down and maul him to death. But this situation was a bit of a stretch for him.

He would have protested, but his Aunt and Uncle would never listen. Partly because he was only nine years old, but mostly because they hated him. Oh, they never came right out and said it, but the message had long since been received. All he was to them was the son of Aunt Petunia's "freak" sister and "deadbeat" father who didn't have the decency to take their child with them when they died.

It hadn't really bothered him when he found out about his parents. After all, what did they mean to him? He couldn't even remember their faces. He didn't feel sorry that he'd never get to see them, or angry towards his relatives for how they treated him.

As a matter of fact, he didn't really feel much at all.

At his most emotional, he was only slightly annoyed. He was never happy, or sad, or afraid. Harry knew that made him different, and his relatives knew it too. Whenever Uncle Vernon would come home after a particularly hard day at work, he would drink. Inevitably, the drinking would lead to some kind of outburst.

Harry very often found himself the target of these outbursts. Uncle Vernon would grab one of his belts, lashing wildly, hitting the small boy wherever he could without leaving an obvious mark. And all the while Uncle Vernon would snarl something about "beating It out of him."

One night, after a particularly rough outburst, Harry wondered what It was. It seemed to be the reason that his Aunt and Uncle hated him so much, but what exactly was It? He thought and thought, but could find no answer. He was very young, after all. Finally, he gave up, and rolled onto his side, pulling up the ratty sheets he was forced to use.

As he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him, he had a realization.

It _is what makes me different. _It _is why I don't have feelings, like everyone else._

It wasn't exactly an answer, but it was something. His relatives wanted It to leave, wanted Harry to be normal. The Dursleys prided themselves on being normal. He thought about that for a moment before deciding that he was very, very glad that he was different.

So as Harry glanced wearily at the small black dog, knowing that the creature was barking at It more than it was barking at him, he resigned himself to his new lot.

He lasted a week, a fact which he took great pride in.

The dog, which for some unknown reason his whale of a cousin had named Benji, barked almost constantly. Harry thought that this was a bit much. After all, he did what he was supposed to. He woke up each morning, made his horrid family breakfast, went to school, got bullied, came home, got bullied some more, and went to bed only to start the whole process over the next day. He felt that a decent night's sleep was the least he should be allowed in return.

And so, late one night, as Benji barked his tiny little head off, Harry decided that he'd hate quite enough. He silently rose from his thin mattress, and opened his cupboard door just wide enough so that he could slip into the hallway. He was very small for his age, thin and wiry, and could be very stealthy when he so chose. The Dursleys were all asleep, and it wouldn't do to wake them.

He crept into the kitchen, squeezed through a gap in the sliding glass door, and stepped lightly into the back yard. He waited for his eyes to adjust, although he probably could have just followed the incessant yipping. When he could at last make out the small shape, he crept towards it ever so slowly. For the first time that he could remember, Harry's heart was pounding in his chest. For some reason, he felt excited, eager, even. It was a strange thing to feel, especially since he still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing.

At last, he was behind the tiny creature, and it was blissfully unaware of his presence, content to yap the night away. Automatically, his hand shot out and clamped around the tiny animal's snout, keeping its jaw firmly shut. He grabbed its body with his other hand, holding it tight to his body so it couldn't escape. It struggled and kicked and made muffled attempts to bark, and Harry found himself getting rather angry.

The little dog wouldn't stop struggling, so he tightened his grip on its jaw and _pulled-_

There was a small snap, a tiny yelp, and Benji stopped moving. Harry looked at the small animal in his hands, which he quickly realized that he had just killed. He began to tremble, his breaths coming out ragged and uneven. He felt... He felt...

He felt _amazing_.

Harry was very surprised at how good he suddenly felt, and that he felt good at all. It was like the world had come into focus for the first time. The moon seemed brighter, the shadows sharper, and Harry himself felt like he was positively glowing. He felt like singing! He didn't, of course, that would have been monumentally stupid.

But still, Harry found himself smiling his first genuine smile. At last, _at last,_ he understood why he was so different, why he had It, what It was for. As he carefully buried the body in the nearby park, he let the tremendous relief wash over him.

He couldn't wait to feel this way again.

* * *

He stepped back to admire his work, remembering fondly how Dudley had wailed when his parents had told him that Benji had run away. With a grin still plastered on his face, and It still shining in his eyes, Harry leaned against the counter and waited for his guest to wake up. He rather hoped that it would be soon, as the static was getting fairly loud and he wanted dearly for it to go away. _Only one way to do that, Harry._

To help pass the time, he thought back to that first year he had spent awake, seeing the world for the first time.

* * *

Now when he went to school he was left alone, rather than bullied. The other children could some how tell that scrawny Harry Potter wasn't someone to mess with anymore.

He didn't kill again for a long time, mostly because he had some more thinking to do. Harry wasn't conceited, but he knew for a fact that he was smarter than most of the kids his age. He couldn't claim to know everything. For example, he had no idea how a car's engine worked, or why his teachers told his class that they were all unique, but then constantly compared them to each other.

He did, however, have a large amount of common sense (which he quickly realized didn't appear to be so common after all.) So his first thought after Benji was not "When do I do it again?" but rather, "How can I do it again without getting caught."

The one thing that Harry was absolutely sure of was that he did not want to get caught. He wasn't quite sure why, but his Common Sense told him that it would be very bad. So he thought about how to not get caught.

He thought. And he thought. And he thought some more.

Finally, after nothing came to him, he changed his angle.

_What if,'_he cautiously reasoned. _What if someone finds out what happened... but they don't know it was me?_

That branched out into a whole other direction, and he entertained fantasies of that for a while before an even more exciting idea hit him.

_What if they never even think it was me?_

Indeed, what if? What if he went about his newfound hobby, and one day he got sloppy and the remains were found. What if, instead of immediately assuming that it was that horrid Potter boy...

What if they dismissed the idea, all on their own?

Oh, how terrible! Who could have done such a thing? What's that? Harry Potter? Don't be ridiculous, he wouldn't harm a fly!

Yes, that would be perfect! He could do it again and again, and no one would look twice at poor old Harry Potter, who was too nice a boy to ever do something like that. But that left a rather large problem.

Harry was not a nice little boy. He didn't know how to be. _Ah, but Harry! Look around! You're surrounded by nice children._

So Harry sank into the background, using his unique ability to not be noticed to its full advantage. He studied his classmates, learning how real children behaved. He watched them play, and fight, and laugh. He learned their words and their games and practiced smiling in the mirror.

And after many long months, he felt it was time to put his knowledge to the test.

On weekends, the Dursleys didn't care where Harry was, so long as he was out of their way. So he walked down the street, looking for someone who didn't already know him to practice on. He came across an elderly woman heading into a grocery store, and hurried to hold the door open for her. She smiled down at him as she passed.

"Oh, thank you. Such a polite boy."

He smiled at her, being extra careful to soften his eyes just right. The old woman went into the store, he let the door close, and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He had passed. This time, anyway. He checked behavior of his mental list, and decided that speaking would be his next obstacle.

It took a long time, but eventually everything settled in just the way he'd wanted it. His neighbors seemed to think that he was trying to make up for being such a hoodlum (which was funny, because Harry couldn't remember ever being much of a hoodlum at all), and were all immensely that he was becoming such an upstanding child.

He helped around the neighborhood just enough to make an impression, but not enough to become the center of attention. Being well known, either as a troublemaker or as a role model were both equally bad. He wanted to appear normal, not be famous.

And so Harry settled into a new routine, being friendly and helpful most of the time, but staying out of sight as much as possible. He did the Thing again a few more times, adding two cats and another dog to his secret burial site. No one really paid the disappearances much mind. _After all, pets run away all the time._

And then, when he was ten, something happened.

He continued to go to school, although he was in a different class now, what with moving up a grade and all. Unfortunately, he was once again chosen to be the punching bag, but he put up with it. He had a good way to relieve stress, after all.

One day, Harry came to class and noticed that something was different. One of the seats was empty, which wasn't all together strange, except that it was Samantha Greene's seat. Samantha was the smartest girl in the class, and had never missed a day of school before. She was so dedicated to education, she even had her own tutor!

Harry couldn't feel affection or love. At least, he was fairly certain that he couldn't. But he was... "fond" seemed a bit strong. Samantha had never picked on him. She didn't raise a finger to help him, but she had never laughed or made fun of him, which made her the most decent person Harry had ever made.

So when his teacher came in and nervously told the class that Samantha was sick, Harry wasn't worried. Curious was a better word. It was obvious that his teacher was lying. He should know, he was quite good at it himself. Something was going on, and Harry decided to look into it himself.

Since Samantha lived close to the school, Harry took a slight detour. He walked past the house, and looked in the front window with a practiced casual disinterest. His first indication that he had been right was that a woman who he assumed to be Samantha's mother was talking to a police officer. The second was that she was crying.

Just as he was crossing the driveway, the front door of the house opened and a man walked out. He was an average looking man, with short brown hair and wearing very average clothes. Immediately, Harry felt something. The man was looking back into the house, and then turned around.

Harry saw the man's eyes, and had to suppress a startled yelp.

Behind the man's boring brown eyes, It was hiding. Harry could hardly believe what he was seeing. _There's someone else with an It?_

The thought had simply never occurred to him. In his defense, he was only ten years old. But still, someone else with an It? And then, as the man walked to his blue car, Harry had a darker thought.

_I don't think I'll be seeing Samantha again._

He wasn't quite sure why he'd thought that, but he knew that it was true. That made him a little upset. He read the man's license plate, and watched him drive off. Harry stood still and thought for a bit. Then he turned around and followed the car.

After half an hour, he came up to an average looking house. he quickly confirmed that it was the same blue car in the driveway, and thought about what to do. Clearly this man was doing the same thing that Harry himself was doing. Pretending to be average, hiding his It from the rest of the world. But he couldn't hide from Harry.

Harry felt himself grin. He turned, and headed for Privet Drive. No matter how careful that man was, he couldn't hide from someone who was just like him.

* * *

For the next few weeks, Harry spent his free time studying the man's house. It amused him to no end that no one looked twice at a child walking down the street, especially a child with his little backpack. The man left for several hours at a time each day, always at the same times. This told Harry that the man had a regular job, and making predicting where he'd be much easier.

At school, the rumors began to circulate that Samantha was missing. It was all his idiotic classmates would talk about. However, he did learn something useful. Apparently, one of Samantha's friends had the same tutor are her. This tutor, Mr. Davis, was the one who had told the Greene's that their daughter had never shown up for her lessons.

Harry was now fairly certain that the brown-haired man was Davis, and was even a bit impressed. _Why would the kidnapper ever report the victim missing? That would be way too suspicious. Which, naturally, makes whoever reports her missing not suspicious at all._

It was fairly clever, in a roundabout way. Harry suddenly realized that Davis had probably done something like this before. It was a Monday, which meant that Davis would be gone until six. Plenty of time to do a little snooping.

So after class, quiet, good-natured Harry Potter walked to a murderer's house, still not entirely sure what he would do when he got there. What he did, it turned out, was climb the fence and look around the backyard.

It was somewhat well maintained. Most of the grass was dying, and there were no plants to speak of. Davis did, however, have a shed.

_No, no. That's just too... He wouldn't... Would he?_

The shed was locked, of course, but happily the back door wasn't. Harry found some keys on a ring just inside of the door, and tried them out on the shed. The third one fit, and with a small click the door was open.

Harry walked inside, closing the door gently behind him. He fumbled for a light switch and, finding one, flipped it. A single lightbulb flickered to life, and Harry was yet again impressed by Davis' devotion to his lie. The shed was full of random tools, all scattered about haphazardly, many of them looking like they had never been used at all.

But Harry looked closely at everything. And, eventually, he made he was to the back right corner of the room. Stashed behind a cabinet was a black trash bag. Harry opened it up, and let out a disappointed sigh when he saw what was inside.

It was Samantha's favorite white dress. Only now it was mostly red.

Harry placed the bag back, frowning. _Well. Can't just walk away from this, can we Harry?_ Then, remembering those crime shows Uncle Vernon was so fond of, he wiped down everything he had touched with his sleeve. _Best not to leave any proof that you were ever here, eh?_

He left the shed, locked it again, and put the keys back where he'd found them, wiping everything as he went. He climbed back over the fence, and began to walk home. First, before anything else, Harry needed to get some gloves.

* * *

Davis came home from his only Saturday appointment at about one in the afternoon. Most of his neighbors were out and about on such a nice day, but Davis just wanted to go inside and relax.

As he stepped into his home, he glanced into his kitchen and noticed that the blinds were closed. He couldn't remember closing them, so he shut his front door, walked into the kitchen, and was knocked unconscious by the ten-year old boy crouching on the counter top and clutching a frying pan.

Harry leapt lithely off the counter, placing the frying pan in the sink. He flexed his fingers in the cotton gloves that he had stolen from Dudley, wishing that he'd been able to get some leather ones. Ah, well. All good things in time.

He turned his gaze to the unconscious Davis, lingering on the lump he now sported on his forehead. He reached down and, using the full extent of his ten-year old might, managed to get Davis on top of the kitchen table.

Harry picked up the duct tape that he had liberated from the backyard shed, and used it to secure Davis to the table. For a brief moment, he considered leaving his mouth uncovered, but decided against it. He didn't want to hear anything this man had to say.

When he was positive that Davis wasn't going anywhere, Harry walked to a corner of the kitchen and sat down, waiting for the man to stir.

After a while, Davis let out a muffled moan, and tried to move. When he realized that he couldn't he tried to trash and scream, but to no avail. Harry decided to make himself known.

"Hello," he said, in a calm and quiet voice.

Davis heard him. He couldn't move his head, so Harry moved into his line of sight.

"You're probably a bit surprised," said Harry. "I mean, I'm just a kid, right?"

Davis didn't make a sound, and Harry looked right into his eyes, letting It bleed through his gaze. Davis seemed to recognize It, and he shuddered.

"Yes," Harry whispered in his calm voice. "I'm just like you. That's how I knew you did it. Because we're the same."

Davis just looked up at him, fear creeping into his face. That made Harry frown a bit. Davis was afraid? He could feel fear? So... So did that mean...?

_Am I a freak among the freaks? Even to someone who's the same as me, I'm still so very different._

Shaking his head, Harry walked back to the counter, picking up the stainless steel knife that he had selected earlier. He admired it for a moment, before walking back to Davis.

"I wanted you to know," began Harry. "Why you got caught. It's because you were careless. You were so used to getting away with it that you never even considered that one day you might get caught."

Harry brought the knife into view of Davis. He watched it, transfixed by its perfect silver shine.

"I won't make that mistake," Harry continued. "I know I'm still young, I've got a lot to learn. But from watching you I learned what not to do."

Harry locked gazes with Davis. His It was trying to hide, cowering away while Harry's was bright, lighting up his bright green eyes with a dark flame. Harry raised the knife above his head, holding it with both hands. He paused, and cocked his head to the side.

"You know, it feels like there's a word that perfectly describes this situation."

He was lost in thought for a moment, before he shrugged.

"Oh well. I'll look it up later."

The knife went down. There was a muffled gasp, a spurt of red, and Harry felt _alive._

After this, he wouldn't kill animals anymore. It couldn't compare to this. Harry sat on the kitchen floor, a grin on his face, and watched the blood flow from the body and drip onto the floor. It was fascinating to watch.

And suddenly, Harry realized that he had no way to get rid of the body.

So he was very surprised when, with a pop, the blood vanished and Davis' body turned into a T-bone steak.

* * *

The static droned loudly, and Harry hummed a tune to help keep it at bay. It didn't work too well, but his guest would be up soon. Then he could finally watch the blood again, and that annoying static would go away for a while.

But it would come back.

It would always come back.

* * *

Staring in stunned disbelief, Harry slowly stood up. He walked to the kitchen table and poked the steak. It was real. He looked down at himself. If any blood had gotten on him, it had vanished too.

_Okay, Harry, no need to panic. You've just gone insane, is all. Well, more insane, at any rate. _The knife was clean too. He could scarcely believe it. What the hell had just happened?

There he was, pondering what to do about the mess and, poof, it was all gone. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this was a bit much.

Acting on auto-pilot, harry searched the cupboards for a plastic bag. When he found one that was big enough, he gingerly placed the steak inside it and sealed it shut. He picked up the knife and stowed it in his backpack, and walked out the back door.

Before he knew it, he was walking down the street towards Privet Drive. Behind a nearby fence, a dog started howling at him. He stopped and looked at the bag in his hands. With a shrug, he opened it up, tossed the steak over the fence and threw the bag away in a nearby trashcan.

As the dog began to noisily tear into the steak, Harry walked away, a small smile slowly coming to his face. The world was brighter than it had ever been, his head was the clearest it had ever been, and he felt as close to genuine happiness that he was sure he would ever get.

* * *

Harry smiled a bit as he remembered that day. He first human kill. Just the thought of it sent shivers down his spine. If only he hadn't noticed the static!

He had first noticed it a few days after dealing with Davis. It wasn't really a noise, per-say, but that was the best way he could describe it. It was like static filled his head and just got louder and louder.

And it didn't seem like it just appeared out of nowhere. It was like it had been there all along, and he had only noticed it after making it go away for a while. So what was poor Harry to do? Just let that obnoxious static drive him crazy?

No, no. We can't have that._Now that we know how to make it go away, it really is the only sensible choice._

* * *

After Davis, he had gone to the library to try to find out anything he could about people like him. It had taken a while, but soon he knew that he was what they called a "serial killer." It was a bit strange, since he didn't _feel _like a serial killer. Of course, he had never been anything else, so what could he compare it to?

And besides, he didn't feel. Not real emotions, anyway.

So Harry was left with no real choice but to go out and do what he did.

Killing people, that is.

But not just anyone would do. A lot of the others he had read up on had personal patterns they stuck to. Some preferred blonde girls, some preferred brunette boys, and a disappointing number of them preferred children. It was quite sad, really.

Harry didn't care about any of those things. He didn't care if they were blonde or had black hair. He didn't care if they were a man or a woman. He wanted... He wanted...

_I want people like me. I want people who _do _prefer blondes or men or children. I want... I want people who have an It._

And so it was decided. Harry Potter, junior serial killer, would only go after people who liked to kill as much as he did. He felt there was a word for that.

He looked it up.

* * *

At last, his guest began to wake up. Harry had duct taped him to a steel table in the center of the room, which had been helpfully provided by the man on top of it. He was and older man, mid 40's maybe, and a bit overweight.

Harry had more than a little trouble getting him on the table.

The man's name was Andrew Redding, and they were currently in his secret basement.

It had been fairly simple for Harry to make sure that Redding fit his specific profile. He had just been wandering aimlessly one day, as many children do, and happened to see Redding out of the corner of his eye. His It practically jumped out at him, and so Harry had dutifully followed him home.

After that, he just waited for Redding to leave (these people always lived alone), broke into his house (didn't anyone in England lock their back door?), and easily found this little chamber. To Redding's credit, it was very well hidden. But Harry knew what he was looking for.

It was a smallish room, mostly made of concrete, and very dungeon like. There were chains and manacles shackled to the wall, and there was a camera set up on a tripod. Harry had also helpfully arranged the pictures he'd found so that Redding could see them from his table. Harry himself tried to avoid looking at them.

Pictures of fat men raping little girls were not exactly his favorite thing to look at.

Harry smiled cheerily down at the fat man in question.

"Finally up, are we?" he chirped. "Really now, I didn't hit you that hard."

Redding groaned. This time, Harry had deigned to leave the man un-gagged. He was somewhat curious as to what he would have to say, and very certain that it would be quite funny.

"The fuck?" Redding grunted. "The hell's going on?"

"Now, now," Harry chided. "Is that language you should be using around minors? And you ought to be nicer to me."

Harry grinned at him.

"Tomorrow's my birthday, you see."

Redding sneered at him.

"What the fuck is this you little shit? The fuck are you doing?!"

"I would appreciate you lowering your voice," said Harry, rubbing his left ear. "I know you did a very good job sound proofing this place, but _I _am right here. No need to shout."

Redding paled as he realized where he was. Harry grinned coldly.

"Yes, that's right," he whispered. "I know what you are."

"You fuck-"

Harry's hand snapped out, squeezing the older man's face with surprising strength for a child. All humor was gone from his voice. It was burning clearly in his eyes.

"I know exactly what you've done," he said in a low, cold voice that made Redding shiver.

And suddenly, Harry let go of his face, the grin was back, and he was chuckling.

"But really. Why do so many of us target children? Where's the fun in that?"

Redding just stared at him. Harry continued.

"And the rape? For shame, sir," he said, wagging a disapproving finger at him.

"Fuck you, you fucking... fuck!" Redding managed to snarl.

Harry clapped very sarcastically.

"Oh, bravo. Very eloquent. You and my Uncle would get along very well, I imagine," he said. "I'd love to introduce you sometime, but..."

He wiggled the silvery knife within Redding's field of vision.

"You don't have-"

"-the guts?" Harry interrupted. "Sorry, but I'm fairly sure that I do."

He took the knife in both hands, raising it above his head. Redding stared up in horror. Harry smiled widely at him, and started to chuckle again.

"Sorry," he said apologetically. "It's just... this is so ironic, you know? Can't you feel it?"

Harry grinned again. Redding's breathing became irregular and his heartbeat sped up-

"Tasty, tasty, irony," Harry sighed. And he brought the knife down.

* * *

He enjoyed the blood for a while, before cleaning the knife and leaving the little room. He closed the door, disguised to look like carpet, and pushed a heavy-looking vase on top of it. He walked away from the secret entrance, somehow feeling that the little door wouldn't be opening again anytime soon.

He stealthily left the house, walking nonchalantly home. His Uncle yelled at him for some reason, and made him go straight to bed. But he didn't mind. He laid on his too-thin mattress, and thought for a bit.

He wasn't happy. No, he very much doubted that he ever would be. But the clarity that he could achieve was close enough for him.

He definitely wasn't healthy, by any definition of the word. He was malnourished, frail, and mentally disturbed. He made no effort to sugar coat it for himself. Whatever he was, it most certainly wasn't natural. But he would make do.

He wasn't even Harry, not really. Harry was just a suit that It wore, to blend in with the prey. But at the same time, It needed Harry to get what it wanted, and so they were practically one and the same.

Perhaps his life could have been better, but he was starting to get a handle on it. He had a routine now, and an understanding of what he was. But to keep being what he was, he needed to appear to be anything but. He needed to seem happy, seem healthy, and most importantly, seem like Harry.

So Happy Healthy Harry went to sleep, grateful that his existence was finally getting on track.

The next morning, a giant broke down his door and told him that he was a wizard.


End file.
